Colette
Copyright© 2022 by Iskander
Chapter 4
November – December1940
Claire had already left when I roused myself. I pottered around, made a cup of tea and sat in the kitchen in my dressing gown and slippers, trying to decide what to do. Being alone in Claire’s flat made me feel uncomfortable so I dressed in my uniform, packed up and headed out. A long, narrow park filled the centre of Montagu Square, overlooked by the tall houses on both sides of the street. I wandered into this, found a bench seat, parked my kitbag at one end and leaned back against it.
As I’d dropped off to sleep, the adventurous side of me had edged towards accepting the offer of a secret and dangerous job. In the cold light of a dingy November morning, I thought about my RDF work. According to F/O Marten at Nether Button, as a skilled operator I contributed to the war effort. But I had joined up wanting to help liberate France; if this work needed French speakers, then its help must be greater.
Mustn’t it?
After quite a long time of pondering this, the dingy sky pockmarked with barrage balloons produced a fine drizzle, so I stood, grabbed my kitbag and headed back to 64 Baker Street. I’d be early but I hoped to wait there in the dry.
Outside, I showed my orders to the guard and went in. The receptionist recognised me.
“Back again?”
“Yes. I need to see Flight Lieutenant James, please.”
Or whatever he’s calling himself today...
As before, they told me to sit and wait. I sat for about thirty minutes, but this time I saw the officer coming, stood up and saluted.
“Follow me, Roberts.”
We trod the same route down into his basement office, where he again sat and consulted a file. After a minute he placed the file on the table and opened a cigarette case, leaning across to offer me one. “Cigarette?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
He lit his and inhaled deeply, sighing out a long feather of smoke. “So, you want to join our madcap band of lunatics?”
“Sir?”
“What we’re doing is dangerous. You must be mad if you want to join us.” His eyes narrowed watching me as he drew on his cigarette.
I swallowed.
Was this part of assessing me?
“Everything in war is dangerous, so I don’t think I’m mad, sir.” I stared back across the desk. “I want to help France.”
His eyes held mine, smoke dribbling from his nose. “Hmm.” His face signalled his approval. “Well, you know how to keep your mouth shut.”
What?
He sat forward. “Go to office twelve, up on the second floor. They’ll get you started.”
I stood up and saluted. “Yes, sir.”
I headed upstairs with my kitbag. I passed closed doors with typewriters clacking behind them. When I found room 12, its closed door also concealed a typewriter. I knocked firmly to be heard above the noise.
The clacking continued but a female voice called out, “Come in.”
I opened the door and jerked to a stop, just managing to hang on to my kitbag: Claire. I’d been set up: she’d been told to watch me and report.
“Welcome, Colette. Congratulations...” Her smile of welcome quirked oddly. “ ... if that’s the right word.”
I stood there, confused.
“Come in, I’ll get you squared away.” She smiled but it felt ... distant. “First of all, there’s a bathroom two doors down the corridor on the left. Go and change into civvies.”
Ten minutes later back in Claire’s office, she smiled again, perhaps recognising the French cut of my clothes, though creased from days in my kitbag.
Claire pointed to a set of forms on her desk. “Sign these forms, please.”
I glanced at them. “I’ve already signed the Official Secrets Act – when I joined the WAAFs.”
Claire stared back at me. “Sign them again, please.”
I shrugged and signed them. Claire gathered them up and put them in a file.
“You’ll start your training at Wanborough Manor, near Guildford.” She handed me a one pound note and a docket to sign.
“Umm...”
“We don’t use travel warrants – you’re a civilian.” Her eyes revealed nothing. “You’ll need to account for every penny and give back any change when you get to Wanborough.”
I nodded, feeling a bit odd at being a civilian again. “Am I out of the WAAFs then?”
Claire’s face remained blank. “No – you’re still a WAAF and still subject to military discipline. But you’re on detached duty where you’re a civilian as far as everyone is concerned.”
Okay.
Clair went on. “Get yourself to Waterloo station and on to the train to Guildford. A George Fredericks will meet you. You’re called Veronica Cheeseworth.”
I blinked in confusion.
Claire just stared back. “No real names.”
I swallowed, the implications of my decision becoming clearer. “Okay.”
Civilian clothes felt strange after months in uniform, but I carried a service kitbag and that combination attracted a couple of curious stares. During the ride to Guildford, I thought about what happened with Claire at her flat: it had been a test.
This meeting at the station will be a test too – and so warranted some thought.
At Guildford station, I walked down the platform and into the station building, searching unobtrusively for a George Fredericks – whatever that might be. I positioned myself on a bench seat outside, keeping a surreptitious eye on the surroundings with the help of the mirror in my powder compact as I dabbed at my makeup. After about five minutes a man walked nervously up the street and sat down beside me.
“Welcome, Veronica.” He tried to sound confident, but his hands were trembling.
I shifted away from him and turned. “I beg your pardon?”
The man blushed at my supercilious tone. “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss. My mistake.” He jumped to his feet.
“That depends.”
He stopped. “Veronica Cheeseworth?”
“And you are?” I fixed him with the same gimlet stare my French grandmother used when her servants displeased her.
His eyes wandered, unsure of himself. “Ummm ... I’m ... er ... George Fredericks.”
I stood up. “Well, come along then.”
He stood there, blinking. “You’re Veronica Cheeseworth?”
I held my austere gaze then nodded, once.
“Oh, thank goodness. I thought I’d stuffed up this exercise too.” He stood, motionless, thoroughly flustered.
I raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“Oh ... yes. Come with me.”
We set off and turned into a side street where he opened the boot of a large car and I deposited my kitbag inside. He ushered me into the backseat, seating himself in the front passenger seat.
After a moment, another man slid in through the far rear door and sat down beside me. He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Back to base.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man smacked ‘George Fredericks’ on the shoulder. “She made mincemeat of you, didn’t she?”
‘George’ half-turned, his demeanour sheepish. “Well, ... perhaps ... a bit.”
The man beside me shook his head and turned to me. “Welcome, Veronica.” He leaned back into the corner, surveying me and smiling to himself. “I think we can make something of you.”
I managed to stop myself from replying and tried to keep my face neutral despite the uncertainty bubbling within me. Then he turned to the window and the rest of the journey passed in silence until we arrived in front of a large house with nearby outbuildings – presumably Wanborough Manor.
“Okay George. Take Veronica up to room eight.” He turned to me. “Get settled in this afternoon. We’ll start you off in the morning.”
I grabbed my kitbag from the boot and followed George into the grand interior and up two flights of stairs. George pointed down a corridor. “Eight’s down there – on the left I think.”
“Thanks...”
He turned away.
“George, I hope I didn’t get you into trouble at the station?”
He turned back, sighing. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for this caper.” Uncertainty quivered on his face. “Every day I think they’ll wash me out ... it’ll happen soon, I’m sure.”
I had no idea what to say, so I smiled a goodbye and walked down the corridor, searching for room eight. I found it at the end. My knock went unanswered so I went in. The ceiling sloped and two standard barrack beds with their lockers stood either side of a gable window. Both were unmade but held a neat stack of bedclothes. A cupboard sporting a couple of coat hangers completed the basic furnishings.
I sat on one of the beds, bouncing it to assess its comfort – it was satisfactory. I unpacked my kitbag into the cupboard and made the bed. Task complete, I went to the window.
Gunfire?
I struggled for a moment with the stiff latch before the sound of gunfire became clear through the open window –shots and short bursts coming from behind the woods across a field. The realisation that I would learn to fire guns both excited and scared me.
I stood there listening until the gunfire stopped. Some minutes later, a group of eight people, including two women, appeared from the woods, some of them with rifles slung from their shoulder or cradling some sort of tommy gun in their arms. They laughed amongst themselves until they disappeared round the house.
To read this story you need a
Registration + Premier Membership
If you have an account, then please Log In
or Register (Why register?)
$1.75
$1.75
